


Mouth to Mouth

by Schwoozie



Category: Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Domestic Violence, F/M, First Aid, No Apocalypse, Past Abuse, Romance, Teaching
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-12
Updated: 2014-04-16
Packaged: 2018-01-19 01:15:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1449889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schwoozie/pseuds/Schwoozie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It isn't a bad deal: teach eight weeks of first-aid classes, and Daryl doesn't have to follow his brother into prison. It'd be a perfect set-up, really, if he didn't have to do it in the high school he never graduated from, with the officer who beat him up breathing down his neck.</p><p>The skinny blonde with a stubborn streak—and some demons of her own—doesn't help him either.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First-Aid

**Author's Note:**

> I've never taken a first-aid class in my life. Let me know if I get anything egregiously wrong. If not, take pity.
> 
> Will be M eventually (maybe E, if I'm feeling saucy)

Daryl surveys the group of people in front of him and feels a little sick.

They're in the basement of the high school Daryl didn't graduated from. The room is windowless and dingy; these rooms are only used for detention and for segregating the delinquent students, so obviously there's no need to clean it up. It looks just like the last time Daryl saw it 20 years ago; the same peeling motivational posters put up to hide where some kid put his fist through the wall; same chairs all scratched up from pocket knives. Hell, some of Daryl's old gum is probably still on the bottom of the desks; judging by the grimaces of the unwitting people who had crossed their legs, they'd gotten some as a present.

He takes a moment to feel sorry for these poor fuckers for getting shuffled into his first-aid class. Most of them are nurses-in-training, drooping in their cotton-candy colored scrubs after twelve-hour shifts. There are a few middle aged dudes who look like they have nowhere better to be, an intense black chick and a guy who can only be her brother—Daryl isn't looking forward to demonstrating chest compressions with that guy—and sitting in the back looking like he wants to chew Daryl's ears off is the fucker that put him here in the first place.

Technically, of course, Officer Walsh didn't put him here—he's just the one who gave him a black-eye and ripped Merle's hand half off his body. If Grimes hadn't intervened, Daryl'd be carving shivs with his brother in central booking right now. Daryl knows he ought to be grateful, and he is—until he rolled into the parking lot, he was damn near perky. But then the reality of what he had to do—a nobody redneck, teaching people to save lives because he happened to've been getting high near the pond where the Grimes kid nearly drowned—well, it hit him about as hard as Officer Walsh looks like he still wants to. At least Grimes'd apologized when he found out who'd be observing his community service the first few weeks, and said he'd do his best to get himself in the room after—a good guy, Grimes. Daryl wishes he could feel the guy's calm blue gaze on him now; he especially wishes swiping Vicodin like he used to wouldn't fuck up his parole. He feels closer to a panic attack than he has in a while.

“A'right, listen up,” he says gruffly. “If you a'int here fer first aid training, you're in the wrong place. Anyone?” He rakes his eyes across the room. One of the nurses, a lady with close-cut hair, cringes under his gaze, while the blonde next to her raises an eyebrow—Daryl feels the skepticism rolling off her in waves, like she doesn't think someone in torn jeans and a grimy button-up ought to be in the same room as her, let alone teaching her anything—and Daryl would've shrunk back if Walsh's gorilla forearms weren't flexing in the corner of his eye, in that damn sprayed on t-shirt, his shit-eating sneer making his broken nose even uglier. It makes Daryl angry enough to stand up straight and keep going.

“A'right, you'll be here eight weeks—“

He hears the click of the door opening quietly, and turns his head to glare at the intruder: a scrawny blonde in a jean jacket and sweet yellow tee, looking so sheepish Daryl'd feel bad for her if he weren't so uncomfortable himself.

When she sees that she hasn't, in fact, avoided detection, she twists her lips together and faces Daryl.

“This is the first aid class, yeah? I'm real sorry for being late, I was just—“

“Damn right you're sorry,” Daryl growls. “Get in yer seat, girl.”

She gapes at him open mouthed for a moment, long eyelashes fluttering, then stands up straight and sticks her little chin in the air. She sits a seat away from the short-haired lady, against the wall, and pulls out a notebook covered in sunflowers. Daryl glances at Walsh; he appears unmoved, maybe even a little bored, but Daryl doesn't feel any better for it. If anything, he feels worse.

He strides across the room and locks the door loudly, then turns back on the class. “Listen the fuck up. You're here fer eight weeks, an hour each. Imma teach you all the basic safety stuff—bandaging cuts, doin' CPR on kids 'nd adults, the works. 'F you're good I'll even teach you how to set yer own bones. I know none'a y'all want ta be here; 'f you did you'd be at the Y or some ritzy old fuck's office. I don't wanna know your names, and you don't gotta know mine. All ya need to know is I know what the fuck I'm doing. 'F you learn right, you might save someone's life. 'F you don't, it'll be yer own fault and no problem of mine. Any questions?”

Walsh raises his hand. He doesn't wait for Daryl to acknowledge him before saying with mock sincerity, “You think you could watch the language, Mr. _Dixon_? I don't think some of these young ladies appreciate it.”

“'F they can't handle my mouth they better get out before we deal wi' sewin' up bullet wounds,” Daryl snaps.

“I don't know any _ladies_ that can't handle seeing a little blood; I'd keep a closer eye on yourself, sir,” says the leggy blonde, rolling her eyes; the black chick laughs sharply, and Daryl find himself liking both of them a little more.

“'F we're done with the fuckin' interruptions,” Daryl says, glaring around the room. He stutters a bit when the skinny girl meets his gaze defiantly; she's gripping her pink pen like a gutting knife.

_Christ_ , Daryl thinks, snapping himself out of it. He walks to the teacher's desk and picks up the first aid kit, handing it to a scruffy guy in a fishing hat in the front row. “We'll start with the basics. I know y'all  _think_ you know how to stop a bleeder; 'm here to correct you before one'a yer sorry asses loses someone their arm...”

******

The class goes by faster than Daryl ever could have expected; he's almost sorry when his ancient phone beeps in his pants, signaling the end of the session. He busies himself re-packing the kit while the students filter past. The blonde nods at him and he finds himself nodding back; she might be uppity, but she has good instincts; the look she shoots down her nose at Walsh doesn't hurt either. The short-haired lady pauses for a moment like she wants to say something; she just touches his arm softly, making him flinch, before leaving with a sad smile. The guy in the fishing hat actually stops to chat, asking Daryl if he'd ever gone hunting: apparently the way he holds scissors reminds the guy of some nature special he saw. Daryl just grunts a brief yes and turns away, but the guy is unfazed, saying a cheerful goodbye. Finally it's just Daryl and Walsh in the room.

Daryl avoids looking up as long as he can, wrapping the ace bandage carefully and ignoring the flashbacks to his dad's shitty old bathroom. Officer Walsh stands there with his hip cocked out like a fucking rooster, his meaty fingers flexing around his hipbones.

“That went better than I thought it would, Dixon,” he says, rubbing a hand across his jaw. “You a'int a half bad instructor. Couldn't have you around kids, though.”

“You gonna lower my requirement for good behavior, Officer?”

Walsh snorts. “Nice try, Dixon. You know if I had my say you'd be right back in the Pen.” He raps his knuckles on the desk. “Don't take it personal.”

“Whatever you say, Officer.”

Walsh snorts and grabs the kit out of Daryl's hands. “Hopefully Rick'll be able to take you next week and I can get out of this goddamn place. High schools gimme the heebies. Might be worth it, though, to have a go at that blonde, huh?”

Daryl snorts, shrugging into his leather vest. “Don't think she's interested. Sir.”

Walsh grins, waggling his eyebrows. “Never are, Dixon. Remember. Next week, same time.”

“Yeah,” Daryl says, fiddling with his phone so he doesn't have to leave with Walsh at his back. 

Now that Merle's in the Pen, he doesn't have much use for the phone—who else is gonna call him (although he did get a text from Grimes, before class, giving advice on handling Walsh—he wonders if he should text him back, or something, but he doesn't want to get more involved with the police than he already is)—but it's good for telling time and looking busy. He doesn't mind the wallpaper, neither: a shot of him, Merle, and their mama from years ago. His dad'd had a brief stint in prison, then, and it was just the three of them: Daryl'd convinced Mama to come fishing with them. Merle had snatched an old Polaroid from the garage he worked at, and they set it on timer to get the shot. Merle's mouth is open in the middle of saying something outrageous, and Daryl—blond and pretty enough to need to grow up damn fast—is shooting something back at him; but Mama's looking serenely into the camera, flanked by her boys and sober for maybe her second time since flying out of the womb. Daryl'd only made it his wallpaper when Merle got locked up; he doesn't need anything his brother'd say about it.

He's so engrossed in the picture that he doesn't see her until he nearly steps on her toes. He rears back, surprised, and there's the skinny kid who'd come in late. She still has that stubborn glint in her eye that she'd had throughout class; Daryl'd avoided looking at her, and the skittish lady'd been happy enough to help her when Daryl made it clear her wasn't going near her. He wasn't scared of some five-foot-nothing teeny-bopper, no sir; but something about her unsettled him.

“A'int it past your bedtime, girl?” he says, tucking his phone away and stretching to his full height, hoping to intimidate her so he can get the hell out of here, maybe get some shut-eye before his shift at the garage. She doesn't seem phased though; just narrows her eyes and puts her hands on her hips. She's still holding that damn notebook.

“Who do you think you are?”

Daryl sputters, forcing out a, “Huh?”

“Who the hell do you think you are, sayin' that kind of stuff to me?”

Daryl unconsciously gropes for the knife he's no longer allowed to wear. “You're th' one who was late, missy.”

“I was five minutes late. You were just startin' class when I walked in, it a'int like I interrupted anything.”

“Girl—“

“I have a name, you know.”

“You think I give two shits what yer name is? Git outta my way, I don't got all day.”

“Not till you apologize.”

Daryl stares at her, mouth hanging open. “The fuck you say?”

“Apologize.”

“'The fuck for?”

She raises her eyebrows like he's a simpleton. “For being a dick.”

Daryl snorts. “I've been a dick every day of my life, I don't hav'ta apologize for nothin'.” He finally unglues his feet from the floor and tries to step around her, but she follows right along. He glares down at her dangerously. “You best move, girl,” he says darkly.

She narrows her eyes at him, then steps slowly to the side. “Yes sir, Mr. Dixon.”

“Thank ya very much,” he says curtly, stomping down the hall. “I could break this fuckin' bitch in half, who the hell does she think she is,” he mutters, not caring if she hears. Dammit, he hopes she hears; maybe now she'll drop the class and leave him alone.

He doesn't know why he pauses at the door to the stairwell to look back over his shoulder. She's standing where he left her, but she seems smaller, somehow. Something stutters in his chest, seeing her hunched over, rubbing at her wrist through her oversized jacket. He shakes it off and slams the door open, letting it echo down the hall. 

_She'll be gone by next week_ , he thinks as he pushes into the parking lot, determined to put the whole thing out of his mind.

For some reason, that doesn't make him feel any better.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know what I'm doing with my life: I was on the way home for Passover and this idea hit me like a freight train. I have a ten page fiction piece due next week and hella finals, so I have no idea when this will be updated. I really do hope to continue it, though.
> 
> Hope y'all like it :)


	2. Bandages

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Am I doin' it wrong, Mr. Dixon, or you got something to say?” Week two.

When he walks in next week and finds her there early, sitting pretty as you please and the only person in the room, he nearly walks right back out. It's only Merle's voice in his head, telling him to stop being a pussy around someone who looks young enough to be in grade-school, that gets him in the door. She's still wearing that oversized jean jacket. He scowls, and she beams brightly, hands folded over her little notebook.

“Well, hey there,” she says cheerfully. Daryl's good at reading people, better than most, and try as he might he can't find anything disingenuous in her tone. His arms break out in goosebumps.

“You're in a good mood,” he mutters, dropping into the teacher's swivel chair, which creaks alarmingly, and swinging his boots up on the desk. “Y'get a new patch in Girls' Scouts or somethin'?”

A frown flits across her face before she seems to decide he's joking. “Nope. Just glad to prove you wrong.”

Daryl raises his eyebrows. “What in the hell was I wrong about?”

She shrugs. “Me.”

He leans his head back and closes his eyes. He'd just gotten off a long shift at Kirk's, the bar he busses for, and doesn’t have the energy to fight with her. He's found himself feeling bad, even, for what he said last week. Not like he'd ever say so.

“'nd who're you?” he asks, peering at her through one eye. She suddenly seems somber again, and he opens both eyes, squinting at her quizzically. “What?”

She frowns. “What what?”

“Why'd you get all serious?”

“I did not.”

“I a'int blind, girl.”

“I told you to stop callin' me that.”

“Tell me who you are, then.”

A secret little smile crawls onto her face, and Daryl feels another shiver worm down his spine. “I thought you didn't care about anyone's name.”

“'m in a better mood today. Didn't have some kid wander in late yet.”

“Good for you.” She crosses her arms on the desk and rests her chin on them. “Why were you so mad last week?”

He frowns. “What, I'm a little nicer to ya and we become pen pals or somethin'?”

“I'm just trying to have a conversation.”

“Well. Don't.” Daryl closes his eyes again, breathing out long and slow through his nose. He's been meaning to make the drive down to Atlanta to see Merle, make sure his mouth hadn't gotten him killed yet; but some awful, selfish part of Daryl couldn't find a reason to. Things are _quieter_ with Merle gone. He doesn't come barging into Daryl's apartment at three in the morning, even more plastered than the girl he proceeds to fuck on the couch; Daryl'd even been able to save some money off his paychecks, now that he doesn't have to drop shifts to follow Merle around. His old pickup truck—the first thing that he'd bought with his own money, the first thing that ever really belonged to him—serves him just fine; but there's a beaut of a bike Martinez has been letting him work on during slow nights. He isn't a vain person—he'd've died of shame long ago, if he were—but imaging himself on that pretty thing gets him flushed as a teenager.

_'f only this gig paid_ , Daryl thinks wryly, smirking a bit.  _Could maybe afford ta keep a girl happy too_ .

“Andrew,” the girl says suddenly, breaking into his content daze.

He looks at her, perplexed. “Huh?”

“That's your name. Andrew Dixon.”

Daryl snorts. “Try again, girl.”

“Nicholas.”

“Nope.”

“Matthew.”

“Nah.”

“David.”

“Gettin' closer.”

“Marion.”

“The fuck?”

She breaks out in giggles and the sound catches in his throat—it tastes like the cotton-candy he had at the fair when he was eleven. His father beat him bloody for sneaking out, and he'd never seen Merle so mad as when he found him, hollering from the ground all the way up to Daryl at the top of the ferris wheel; but the taste of that cotton candy, light and sweet like spun gold on his tongue, has lasted in his memory. Her laughter tastes like that.

“I have an uncle named Marion, a'int nothing to be ashamed of.”

“Yeah, well I a'int yer uncle,” Daryl says. He feels like he needs to add something to that, like there's something wrong in saying it; but he hears someone coming down the hall and swings his legs down quickly. Moments later, Officer Walsh strides into the room, thumbs hooked in his jeans and showing off the V of his hips. Daryl's happier than he should be to see the girl wrinkle her nose and look away.

“Well, look who's here chatting it up,” he says loudly, grinning cheekily between them. “He isn't bothering you again, is he, darlin'?”

“Leave her alone, Walsh,” Daryl growls before he can stop himself.

“We're getting' along just fine, thanks for asking,” she says quickly, before Walsh can respond.

“That's good. Don't want to have to lock him up for something else.”

The nurses choose that moment to walk in, so Walsh can't continue. Even so, Daryl's heart freezes in his chest, and he feels his vision go blurry. He doesn't let himself look at the girl; just glares at his boots as he listens to the blonde greet her. There's nothing strange in her voice when she replies, and that almost makes Daryl angrier. 

“Hey; are you alright?” the short-haired lady asks softly. She looks like she's about to touch him again, and Daryl stands quickly, stalking away from her.

“A'int yer business; sit the fuck down.”

He barely looks at the girl for the rest of the class. He doesn't know why it's so shameful, that she knows he's a criminal. It doesn't even matter, that it'd been Merle's heroin stashed in his glove compartment, Merle's illegal AKs in his trunk; he'd been fool enough to let his brother get him involved in that stuff in the first place. If it weren't for Grimes and his gratitude (which Daryl couldn't for the life of him understand; the kid had been drowning, for Christ's sake—Daryl had been there—he'd taught himself, years ago, how to get liquid out of someone's lungs, whether it was water or his dad's own vomit)—if it weren't for Grimes, Daryl'd be the one watching his ass in the showers and backing up Merle in his showboating. No matter how much this classroom looks like one, no matter how Walsh wants it to feel, he's far safer; hell, he's safer here than he was in his own childhood bedroom. It doesn't matter what some little bitch thinks of him; doesn't matter, the look on the short-haired lady's face when he cussed her out—not outrage, or hurt, but indifference, like she was used to people talking to her like that, like Daryl'd been so used to it all his life, so used to it that nothing Walsh could do would really faze him.

He doesn't like him looking at that girl, though. It makes Daryl feel dangerous, like the time Merle got him on speed. Like when mommas with strollers cross the street to get away from him.

The girl pairs with the short-haired lady when they practice bandaging each other. The girl's hands are half covered by her jacket, quick and small even against the woman's skin-and-bones bicep.

“Am I doin' it wrong, Mr. Dixon, or you got something to say?” the girl asks, and Daryl jerks, realizing he'd been staring at them. There's no malice in her voice, though, and she looks up at him teasingly. The short-haired lady won't look at him, staring blankly at the bandage winding past her elbow. The girl is still watching him with her big blue eyes; he's never seen someone with such big eyes look at him like that. 

“Yer doin' fine,” he growls, ready to move on; then he sees the half-healed bruise glowing beneath the lady's deltoid where the sleeve is bunched up. Daryl's own arms flex; then he plants his foot back and leans in a bit, speaking low. “Listen, I shouldn't'a snapped at you earlier. You don't gotta look ashamed or nothin'.” 

She finally looks up. He's shocked to find tears welling in her eyes. “Pull yerself together, Christ,” he mutters, and stalks away to the next group. One of them used to be an army medic (Daryl'd overheard) and doesn't exactly need any pointers; but Daryl hovers over them for a bit, straining to hear the women's soft conversation behind him. He hears that cotton-candy giggle and can't help glancing—and there's the girl, smiling at him softly, like he's shown her something. 

He walks to the other end of the room so she won't see the red creeping up his cheeks: but he finds he doesn't mind, so much, this heat like a campfire on a cold night.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the short chapter; I had to get them talking at least. The next one should be a bit longer. And there will be some Martinez because he's probably the most underrated character in anything ever. Hearts everywhere.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	3. Splints

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Everyone's got their own sins. Doesn't do to be solving them for anyone else, right?” Week three.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for public domestic abuse and violence.

“I don't care if I'm on the clock or not, I a'int touchin' something with a sparkly pony on it.”

“You're such a pussy, man,” Martinez says, shoving past Daryl to get to his daughter's favorite cereal. The brand's in the middle of their My Little Pony promotion, and all the pink is making Daryl's headache worse.

“'Least I a'int whipped,” Daryl says, crossing his arms and sulking by the Cocoa Puffs. 

“Yo, you might not have a girl, but that brother'a yours—“

Daryl growls. “Don't start.”

Martinez shrugs, tossing another pink box into the cart. “All I'm sayin', he's been in jail for what, three weeks now? And you're still putting your ass on the line to deal with his messes.”

Daryl shrugs. He wishes they were outside so he could smoke. He's not used to being around Martinez without the taste of Nicotine in his mouth.

“It'll come back on you eventually. Just watch: you'll get arrested again, I'll be out my best mechanic, and it'll make your cop boyfriend cry.”

Daryl rolls his eyes. “Shut the fuck up about Grimes, a'right? He's good people.” Daryl smirks. “His girlfriend'd be right up your alley too.”

“What, she looks like Karen?”

“Nope, but she got a handbag just the right size for your balls.”

“You know that raise you got coming is based on good behavior?”

“Thought I was yer best mechanic.”

“You're also smarter than this.” Daryl suppresses a sigh; Caesar's got his mommy-ing face on and they've stopped in front of a wall filled with manic rabbits. Daryl's first acid trip went something like this. “Listen. You've got a good thing going on now. A deal with a cop, two solid jobs—and I know Rob pays better than I do—little bit of honey in your life—“

“The fuck you talkin' about?” Daryl asks, squinting at his boss.

“You've been all moony like you got a girl on the brain. Staring into space and shit.” Daryl glares at him. “Fine, maybe you just jacked some good cable, a'int nothin' to me. My point is, you're gonna risk all that because Merle has some outstanding deliveries?”

“My life a'int that pretty; it a'int like I got property in Daytona or somethin'.” Martinez isn't budging. Daryl huffs. “Look, I know Merle a'int the best to be around—“

“He bosses on you like a janky little poodle.”

“Watch yer mouth, sunshine,” Daryl growls.

“I know what I'm talking about, bro. All that's missin' is a bell on a string.”

They start walking towards check-out. Some kind of commotion is going on, and Daryl prays that it'll end this conversation. “You don't fuckin' know us, man; let it go.”

“Listen, I get that you guys went through some shitty stuff—“

“Hold up.”

“You gotta let me say this, man—“

“Caesar.”

Martinez follows his gaze to the register. There's a guy standing there who looks the spitting image of Daryl's dad's old drinking buddies—sweaty, balding and mean—cussing up a storm. A little girl who looks about twelve is standing with her back to the scene, arms crossed tight across her stomach, eyes squeezed shut and head bowed like she wants to fold in on herself till there's nothing left. Daryl can't see the face of the woman backed into the candy display, shoulders hunched in a shield round her neck like she expects it to be grabbed—but he recognizes the hair.

“Com'on, Daryl, leave them to it, there's nothing we can do.”

Daryl shifts from foot to foot, skin humming. “I know that lady, man. She's in my class.”

“Hey.” Martinez steps in front of Daryl, between them and the scene. “You ever wanted someone to stop your daddy wailing on you? It ever not make it worse when you got home?” Daryl looks at him, jaw clenched. Martinez glances behind him; the cashier is trying to calm the man down but he just starts yelling louder, and the woman's pleading—

“Com'on, man. There's nothing you can do—“

—and the man grabs her by the arm, right where Daryl'd seen the bruise, right where Daryl knows it must be molted yellow and brown and aching.

He pushes past Martinez to step through her cry and grab the man by the wrist, squeezing on his pressure point until he lets go with a shout and falls against the conveyor belt.

“The fuck'r you doin'—“

“We got a problem here, buddy?” Daryl spits, fisting the man's shirt and getting right up in his face. “Cause it looks like the lady's disagreein' with you on something.”

“Let him–, Ed, come on, let's just go home—“

“Shut up you stupid bitch—“

“Hey!” Daryl shouts, shoving him down and smacking his head on the magazine rack. “You gonna call her that in front'a yer kid? Take a look around you, man, this a'int a fuckin' steer hall.”

“You'd best let me up, you pig fucker—“

“Hey, hey, alright now!” Martinez shouts, shoving at both their chests and stepping between them. 

Daryl goes back a step, again forcing the lady against the candy. He feels her hand gripping the edge of his vest. “Just go away, please,” she whispers, “You're going to get yourself hurt—“

“Everyone calm down and take a breath,” Martinez says, also breathing heavily, still between them, his fingertips lingering on their chests. “We don't need a scene here, do we?”

“A'int no scene on my end, man,” Daryl growls, shaking off the lady's hold. She slides away and he sees her out of the corner of his eye, gripping her daughter.

“Yeah, ok.” Martinez turns to the guy. “We cool, here?” There's a long, pregnant pause—then the man grunts, slumping against the belt. Martinez takes that for assent. He lowers his arms slowly, then steps out from between them. Ed straightens up, beer belly heaving as he glares Daryl down. “Everyone's just gonna pay for their shit and go, alright? We don't need no cops coming down here.”

“Won't even matter'f he goes to prison, 'n ugly fuck like that—“

“Daryl—“

“You been fuckin' this guy too, Carol?” Ed snarls, shifting forward. “He looks just the type, a whore like you—“

“Ed—“

“'Might be she's a whore,” Daryl spits, stepping forward, “but anyone 'gets off'n hittin' women a'int nothin' but a coward, pussy, _bitch_ —

Daryl doesn't feel Ed's meaty paw slam into his face until the back of his head crashes into the candy rack. The blow vibrates violently through his spine as he slides to the floor. Through the ringing in his ears he can make out people running around and yelling, and a little girl's crying getting distant.

As his vision slowly clears, he sees Martinez crouching down in front of him, wielding a sack of peas and a grimace.

“What'd I tell you, man,” Martinez says, handing him the peas and shaking his head. Daryl groans as he pushes the familiar pebbled chill against his face, sirens ringing in his ears. “Redneck playing the good samaritan—'s never gonna end well...”

******

Three days and much ibuprofen later, and Daryl's feeling somewhat like a functioning human being again. He hasn't been punched that hard since the time his dad caught him stealing his cigarettes—and then the pain in his face was the least of it. Even Walsh pulled his punches.

So when the classroom fills up and the short-haired lady (Carol, he remembers, the prick called her Carol) is nowhere to be seen, he feels little lines of worry begin to wiggle in his stomach.

When the blonde nurse comes in alone, something trips in his chest; he's distracted enough not to notice the girl in the jean jacket looking at him worriedly. Without giving himself a chance to think he sidles up to the blonde, effectively cornering her against the wall.

“You seen yer friend today?” Daryl asks, not quite meeting her eyes.

The blonde tilts her head, zeroing in on his bruised eye. She quirks an eyebrow, and he decides she's too smart by far.

“She'll be here,” the blonde says. “She took her last sick day, but she'll be here.”

He feels something like solidarity in the air between them, like there's things they both could say—then Daryl notices Walsh watching him out of the corner of his eye. He quickly puts some distance between himself and the blonde, jerking his chin towards her seat. She's still looking at him consideringly; he ignores her and strides to the teacher's desk, starting without preamble.

“Today we're doin' splints. Useful in a pinch, but they's still only temporary. Good for sprains and twists, but if it's broken you'll need someone to set it, 'less you can do it yerself.”

He hears the door open and shut as he's speaking, but doesn't let himself look at her. When they've broken into groups and Walsh gets up from his corner seat to slide in beside her, Daryl hovers by the girl in the jean jacket, tensed against responding to whatever shit Walsh is about to say to her.

“You doin' alright, ma'am?” Walsh asks softly. It's a tone Daryl'd never expected to hear from him. 

“Fine.”

There are a few moments of silence, and Daryl looks down to see the girl watching him. Her hair had been wet when she came into class, like she'd just showered; she has it pulled over her right shoulder, puffy and soft. A single strand sticks to the curve of her lip, but she doesn't smile. She's listening too.

“You have any kids?” Carol doesn't answer. The girl reaches up and tucks her hair behind her ear. She has a mole peeking out of the down by her temple, and her finger lingers on it before pulling away. “You know that if you need it... there's ways to get protection. For you an' them. All you need's to ask. Do you need help, ma'am?”

Daryl looks over at them now, and finds Carol looking at him. She has a black eye to match his, but more recent; bruises march down into her turtleneck like ants that know the way. Her cheeks are red and shiny from crying; but when she meets Daryl's gaze, her eyes harden. He nods; but whether it's out of agreement or solidarity, he isn't quite sure.

“No, sir. I'm fine on my own.”

He feels the girl's eyes on him as he walks away.

******

“You a'int gonna tell me what happened with you and Carol, are you?”

Daryl ignores Walsh as he shoves the day's supplies back into his ratty backpack. The state doesn't care enough about the class to afford them supplies, so Daryl has to bring his own, and the way the woods sometimes go he isn't wasting a single piece. He folds the rags and splints methodically, jaw clenched and turned away.

He jerks violently when Walsh grabs the back of his neck to force his head up. “I a'int fucking around here, Dixon,” he snarls, getting right up in Daryl's face. “If you interfere in a criminal investigation—“

“Looks to me like the lady don't want nothin' to do with you,” Daryl growls, jerking away. “So I don't see what there is ta investigate.”

Walsh sighs harshly. “Look. Dixon. We've had our differences—”

“Looks ta me like we're still having them.”

“You watch yourself.” Walsh steps around the desk and Daryl grips a slab of wood warily. Walsh looks at his twisting hands and smirks. “Yeah, you be real smart here, redneck. Doesn't matter how much Rick likes you; it won't even take that much to get you thrown back in jail.”

“You're shit at sweet-talkin', Walsh. Say yer piece and git outta my way.”

Walsh folds his meaty arms and shove a breath out his nose. “Look. I don't like you and you don't like me, but I'm still a cop, and this here's a battered woman.”

“Don't see how you figure that.”

“I seen both your faces—“

“You a'int seen nothin',” Daryl spits, feeling the rage curling deep inside him. “Ya think being a cop means you understand us? Fuck that. She a'int battered till she says she is. You think sayin' it for her's doing anyone any favors?”

“If there's a kid—“

“Then that kid's already grown the fuck up. A'int nothin' you can do to turn it back, 'less you would've taken her daddy in when you'd gotten him the first time.”

Walsh frowns. “The first—“

“You've seen him before. Might not know it, but you've seen him.” Daryl shoves past Walsh, swinging his bag over his shoulder. He spares him one last contemptuous glance. “Can't fix something that's already broken.”

******

She's waiting for him in the hall again, and he wonders what she needs to chew him out about this time. But she just smiles, and falls into step as they exit the building.

“It's interesting the way you taught us today,” she says, suddenly and yet not startlingly, her voice is so sweet. “I've seen my daddy splint up a horse or a cow dozens of time, but it never looked like that.”

“People a'int cows,” Daryl mutters. She's following him to his truck, like they're about to go on a journey together. It's getting on into October, and the air is chilly and chopped, throwing the end of her ponytail between her shoulder-blades. “You got a ride?”

“Nah, I walk here.”

“'Live far?”

“Close enough.”

They've reached the door of his truck, and he fidgets. He's never had a girl like her in his car before; he isn't sure how to ask.

A lone crow's foot flexes at the corner of each eye when she smiles. “You don't have'ta look so shifty, I a'int asking for a ride. I like the walk.”

“Yer daddy'll sew up pigs but won't pick you up?”

Something in her face slips to the side. “Daddy a'int around anymore.”

“He left you?”

“Died.” She smiles again, almost apologetically, like she's disappointed him. 

Daryl shuffles his feet. He remembers his eleventh birthday. Momma had forgotten, of course, and Merle'd just've taken him to get high, so Daryl lost himself in the woods, found a clearing and ringed it with stone to burn one of his daddy's old shirts. It was a kitschy tee, some souvenir from a bar that'd burned itself to the ground 30 years earlier, stained on the belly and beneath the arms. Daryl put it on the stones and lit it on fire and wished that his daddy would collapse in the street and forget to wake up. He wished that he'd roll himself into the bushes, so no one'd find him until the skin had slid off his face. He wished that a worse man would come along, a man like Daryl could be someday, to drag him farther into the bushes and bury him there with belts and stones. Daryl burned his daddy's shirt and wished lots of things. He doesn't know what to say to someone who wouldn't even know the words.

Their silence stretches on, long and uncomfortable, until she shrugs like the falling dark is a mood she can pass through with ease. “You live far?”

“Yeah,” he grunts. “But I got work.”

“Alright. I'll see you next week, then?”

“Yeah.”

He gets into his truck and closes the door softer than normal, swinging his bag into the empty seat next to him. 

She watches as he twists the key into the ignition, then says quietly. “I think you're right, so's you know.”

He pauses and looks at her. Her hair is honey-gold in the falling light, and he wonders again whether a good man would offer her a ride. “How's that?”

“Not to tell about Carol's business. Everyone's got their own sins. Doesn't do to be solving them for anyone else, right?”

“Yeah.” Daryl shifts uncomfortably. “M'name's Daryl, by the way,” he blurts. She smiles, and he scowls. “Don't be telling no one.”

She lets out a laugh that shows all her teeth, small and neat in rows like daisies. “Your secret's safe with me, Daryl Dixon.” 

“Who're you, then?”

She smiles playfully, then turns to start walking down the road, tugging her jacket closed.

“Hey!” Daryl hollers out the window. “You a'int gonna tell me your name?”

“Nope!” she calls back without turning around.

Daryl collapses back into his seat. He's miffed, and he can't understand why his lips want to turn up at the corners. 

He buckles himself in and peels out of the lot, but not before he hears the name shouted from behind him.

“Beth Greene!” The words fly in tingles through the open window and down his spine. 

Daryl smiles.

 


End file.
